


Sweetest Tongue has Sharpest Tooth

by A_F_S_M_A_S



Category: UnDeadwood (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, UnDeadwood Mini-series (Critical Role), depiction of a panic attack, lycanthropy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:41:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23074906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_F_S_M_A_S/pseuds/A_F_S_M_A_S
Summary: Arabella had a habit of disobeying her parents.One time, that decision came back to bite her.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 29





	Sweetest Tongue has Sharpest Tooth

Arabella Livingston was born with adventure in her heart, an eye for mischief, and a hunger for trouble that was never satisfied. Her parents had never squashed that fire in her, try as they might. Her sister, Cynthia, had long been her partner in crime, but she was the sweeter and more responsible of the two, and had always been there to either caution Arabella out of doing something or to get her out of hot water when she would eventually get caught.

It was Arabella’s curiosity and disobedience streak that led her to sneak past the nannies and the watchmen who patrolled her parent’s land one night. She had overheard the kitchen staff speak of a group of nomads, a traveling carnival of sorts, who had rolled into Atlanta not far from the family home just the night before. She knew her parents wouldn’t let their darling daughters be around such folk, which was half the reason Arabella wanted to see them. Cynthia was sound asleep after coughing and sneezing for most of the day, so Arabella did not wake her for the adventure.

Officers found Arabella the next morning. Her dress had been torn, her shoes were missing, claw marks covered her arms and legs, and a deep bite had been left between her neck and left shoulder.

* * *

Arabella was still laying in bed, fresh bandages covering her wound, as her parents argued with the surgeon.

“What attacked my daughter!?” Mr. Livingston demanded to know.

The surgeon, a man of many years of experience, was at a loss of words. When he finally found them, the confidence typical of his profession was absent in his voice. “Well, I want to say it was a dog, but-”

“But what!?” Mr. Livingston snapped.

“Mr. Livingston, please. Now, I’ve tended to my share of dog bites in the past, but this… this is different.”

Mr. Livingston opened his mouth to voice his fury once more, but his wife stopped him, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “How is it different, doctor?” she asked.

“Well, for starters,” he replied, “I’ve never seen a dog leave such a large bite before.”

* * *

The injury had healed remarkably quickly, though it was clear the scars would linger for the remainder of Arabella’s life. Mrs. Livingston was so overjoyed to have Arabella awake and clear of any danger that she forgot to be angry with her over sneaking out. Mr. Livingston found the patience to wait a few days before lecturing his daughter. Cynthia, who had never left Arabella’s bedside throughout the horrid affair, maintained her vigil for another week. Cynthia brought meals to Arabella’s bed, slept beside her at night, and was ever the cautious nurse. She insisted to be present whenever bandages were removed and replaced, or when the doctor would apply something to the injury. Even when the doctor’s visits ended, Cynthia maintained her new routine. 

Part of Arabella was beginning to feel on the verge of being coddled and wanted it to stop. It reminded her of how their parents treated them as if they were dolls made of silk and glass. The part of her that won out was the one that only felt at ease when Cynthia was around.

“It was rather stupid of me,” she said one evening in bed, “sneaking out that night.”

“Oh, yes. Incredibly so,” her sister replied with a smile.

“I thought it was your job to keep me out of trouble?” Arabella teased.

Cynthia laughed and kissed her forehead. “What am I? My sister’s keeper?”

* * *

She was asleep, and then she wasn’t.

She was at peace, and then she was in pain.

She was, and then she was not.

There was blood.

There was hunger.

There was strength.

There were screams.

The screams were everywhere.

* * *

Cynthia found her the morning afterwards covered with blood. Arabella stood, speechless and unmoving, as Cynthia fretted over her. When it became clear that the blood wasn’t Arabella’s, Cynthia slowly raised her gaze to meet that of her petrified sister. Despite the questions racing through her mind, she couldn’t imagine what to actually say.

Arabella broke the silence between them. “Please don’t tell mother and father.”

* * *

Cynthia took it upon herself to cover for Arabella’s transformations. Excuses for her absences became harder and harder as time went on. There were only so many times that their parents, friends, and associates would believe that a sudden sickness had taken hold, or that something she ate at supper disagreed with her. The frequency of these did not go unnoticed, but their parents never seemed to put it together that it was always during the night of a full moon.

* * *

“What do I look like?” Arabella asked one morning as Cynthia did her hair for the day’s events.

“Well,” she replied, “I’d say I have my work cut out for me. At this rate, you’ll never look like a decent young lady.”

“I meant what do I look like when… when I’m not me?”

Cynthia hesitated, the hands holding Arabella’s hair frozen. When she spoke, she did so slowly, choosing each word carefully. “You’re… large. You have a sort of russet brown fur. Not as lovely a shade of red as your hair, but… you could look worse.”

“Well, at least I’m not an _ugly_ monster.”

“You’re not a monster, Arabella.”

“What word would you use then?”

Cynthia hesitated only for a moment. “A victim of unusual circumstances,” she said.

Victim. The term did not bring Arabella comfort.

* * *

The murder of Nicholas Barton sent shockwaves throughout Atlanta. He had long been known as an unscrupulous businessman, a miserly dealer, and an ambitious social climber who was desperately trying to secure a place within the upper circles of high society. He was disliked by most to a great extent, though none had wished for the grisly end he had met. The papers reported that, had it not been for his undamaged left foot, which proved the rumors true that he did have six toes on it, his body would have been beyond recognition.

Cynthia was holding Arabella, who had collapsed to the floor. Tears were streaming from her eyes, she was breathing a mile a minute yet her lungs felt deprived of air. Arabella felt deep down, past her twisted stomach and guts, that she was going to die. She wanted to.

“We don’t know if it was you-”

“I got out last night! You saw the paper! He was almost unrecognizable-”

“Any idiot with an axe or a hammer could have done the same work. You are not a murderer, Arabella Livingston. Do you hear me? You are a good person.”

It was long before the panic subsided, and even longer before Cynthia could get Arabella to sleep.

* * *

“The wolf bit you, didn’t they?”

The old woman had seen through the pretense of her words and cut straight to the point. Arabella and Cynthia exchanged a look. They had gone to the great effort of convincing their parents to let them come see the strange carnival that, to them, seemed no different than the one that Arabella had snuck off to so long ago. They knew that they could not end the night empty handed. Without a word, Arabella pulled her collar and sleeve to the side just enough that the old woman could see some of the scars her attacker had left behind.

The old woman, with wrinkled, leathery skin, sharp cheeks, a gaunt frame, and dark eyes that showed little tenderness or restraint, reached across the table with long, thin fingers, tracing the scars. The owner of the carnival had advertised her as Madame Arandi, Mistress of Mysticism, Teller of Fortunes, and Keeper of Occult Secrets. The showman told no lies in that regard. 

“Do you know who it was?” she asked. “The human face and name who gave you these?”

“No,” Arabella replied. “I believe whoever it was had been a member of the carnival that had come to town, but I don’t know who specifically it was.”

“Do you remember anything that could help? Even a minor detail of what kind of people they truly were?”

She thought it over, doing her best to remember everything she had seen that night. “I remember seeing two empty cages. Perhaps I was attacked by more than one. They said I was covered in many scratches-”

“Girl, most people don’t survive an encounter with a single werewolf. I’ve never met anyone who could survive two, let alone an adolescent girl.”

“Then why would they have the two cages?” Cynthia asked. “The police didn’t report another attack, or murder, or even a missing person.”

The old woman sat back in her chair. “It’s possible that this group you speak of once had two. Maybe they only had one, but were planning on having a second.”

Arabella’s eyes widened. “You think the attack on me was deliberate?”

She nodded. “It is possible. There are only two kinds of werewolves: the ones who resist the curse, and the ones who embrace it.” Madame Arandi leaned forward in her chair. Even though she shortened the distance between them only by a few inches, Arabella was unnerved by the proximity of the stern, old face illuminated by lamp and candle light. Arandi’s question was simple. “Which do you intend on being, girl?”

If it hadn’t been for Cynthia, she wouldn’t have found the strength to resist as feebly as she could. “The former,” she said, trying to sound strong.

Madame Arandi studied her for a moment, then gave a slight nod. It had been the first sign of sympathy or respect they had received from her. She then turned her attention to Cynthia, asking, “How did you get involved in this?”

“I found her the morning after her first transformation,” Cynthia responded. “I’ve been helping her hide it from our parents.”

“Have you?” When Cynthia nodded, Madame Arandi turned back to Arabella. “You’re lucky, girl.”

“How so?” she asked.

“Werewolves are defined by power they cannot control and a murderous hunger they cannot satisfy. It is for this reason that a werewolf’s hands are often stained by the blood of the ones they love most.”

“That will never happen!” Arabella snarled, erupting from her seat and slamming her hand into the table. Arandi had no reaction other than a stern glare, while Cynthia had nearly jumped out of her seat. A wordless moment passed. The only sounds were the crowds outside, though in Arabella's ears they were deafened by the heavy, enraged breathing escaping her nostrils. Slowly, she regained control of her temper as she became aware of a sharp sensation prodding at her palm. She looked down at her hand, lifting it to find the cracked splinters of the wood beneath. The anger that had so suddenly ignited in her simmered just as quickly into a sullen shame.

“We shall see, girl,” Arandi told her.

Cynthia placed a hand on Arabella’s arm, gently guiding her back down to her seat. “Madame Arandi,” she stated, “we thank you for the time you’ve given us tonight. We ask you to lend whatever aid you can give us, for which we would be most grateful.” Cynthia retrieved a pair of envelopes and placed them on the table, sliding it towards Arandi. The old woman took one of them and opened it, inspecting the money she found inside. She pocketed it away, but pushed the second back.

“I’m old. I have little use for your money or for my worldly possessions. None of my companions have any gift for the old ways.” Arandi rose from her seat and went into the back of her tent, returning shortly with full hands. “I had a girl once who I was teaching,” she continued, “but she ran away with some man many years ago. Now my ways pass on to you. Along with what little knowledge and trinkets I can offer.”

Madame Arandi placed two books bound in old leather on the table, and held out a necklace of black thread attached to an encircled pentagram made of silver. “Wear this before the full moon rises, and only then. The charm will repress the beast.”

Arabella smiled earnestly for the first time since meeting the old woman. “A cure!” She tried to grab it, only for the old woman to pull it out of her reach. 

“It is not,” she corrected. “This is not a cure, only a treatment. It will not stop the transformation, but it will leash the beast for the night that you wear it. Your wolf will only attack in self-defense as long as the pentagram is present. But you cannot wear it every period of the full moon. If you wore it every night of a full moon for two months in a row, you would need to put the charm away entirely for the nights of the third month. A full moon lasts between three and four days. You could also wear the charm for the first two or three days, and then let it out the last night. This will also preserve the charm’s power.”

“What would happen if she wore the pentagram for every full moon?” Cynthia asked.

“A beast that becomes too accustomed to a cage will eventually gnaw away the bars with its teeth. An enemy accustomed to your tactics will never be beaten in battle. The magic of the charm, if overused, will degrade. The line between you and the wolf will blur until it finally fades away forever.”

Arabella made a silent gulp. “What would happen to me then?”

Madame Arandi placed the pendant into her hand. “You do not want to know that answer, girl.”

* * *

A year had passed since their meeting with the wise woman. The charm had done its work. Arabella had settled on wearing it for the majority of a full moon, letting the wolf out on the final night of each one. Cynthia had been diligent to make sure she did not overuse the magical trinket, and the two together had become quite accomplished scholars of the occult and the arcane, expanding their library by attaining any dark text that they could get their hands on. They had also developed into impressive amateur astrologists, if only to make sure that a full moon would never surprise them.

Arabella would never become fully accustomed to the cruel hand that fate had dealt her, but she was able to think on her situation with a greater clarity than before. It was this that led her to an unorthodox conclusion.

In a way, the beast was her tenant and she was its unwilling landlady. The rent it paid came in the form of resilience that Arabella did not see in other women, nor in any man she had ever known for that matter. Sickness had become a stranger to her. Stubborn horses couldn’t escape her grasp so long as she had a good grip on their reins. Even in the most fashionable of high heels, no one around her could match her speed or her reflexes. Her ears picked up whispers that many would pray to God did not get picked up by the wrong person. Darkness wasn’t so dark as she remembered it being in her childhood. Women around her reeked of the smells of men under their perfume, and the men just reeked. Arabella had forgotten the way it felt to not be so strong.

But room and board were required by her unwanted guest. She had no say in what it did on its nights out. Fall and winter were the worst. She could not abide the longer nights, and always yearned for the long days of summer. Cynthia did the best she could to keep it indoors, but it would eventually get out and roam throughout the night. At least the beast had the decency to get her back home before sunrise. Arabella could not bear the thought of having to make her way home in the morning after a transformation without a stitch of clothing to shield her from prying eyes.

Its victims were primarily cattle, pigs, sheep, and chickens that Cynthia would arrange for it to devour. Though Cynthia would tell her that her wolf was not quite as loud or messy since the charm and knowledge that Madame Arandi had armed them with, it brought Arabella no comfort. No decent person would put their beloved sister in a position where she would have to chain them up and feed them like some wild animal.

This was no decent way to live, but Arabella had decided that she could live with it.

* * *

The telegram of Cynthia’s death sat on the floor beside where she had collapsed.

“Who am I without you?” she asked amidst her tears. “What am I without you?”

* * *

Normal social graces demanded that a widow or widower spend at least a year in mourning before even thinking of courtship with another, but society's expectations were not laws set in stone. Arabella was no fool. Cynthia had married for the sake of the family and its finances. It only made sense that her parents and brother-in-law would act to keep such a profitable alliance after her passing. Arabella understood, but that did not lessen her rage the day her parents approached her with the matter.

She agreed on the condition that she be allowed to speak privately with her soon-to-be husband. That meeting came a few days later with her brother-in-law’s arrival. Eugene Whitlock looked well for a man who must have surely been struck by overwhelming sorrow for the wife who had gone too soon. He had lunch with her and her parents, conversing mainly of business matters with her father. It was an hour later that Arabella finally got her chance to speak alone with him. Their conversation was brief.

“I will consent,” she told him. Before he could speak, she added, “On one condition.”

He raised his brow in surprise. “Name it.”

She had chosen her words carefully long before he arrived. “During the night of a full moon, on any and every such night, I must be completely unavailable. I cannot go out, receive visitors, not even sleep in the same room with you.”

Whitlock’s face was racked with confusion. She had always been his odd sister-in-law, whose tendencies were written off by Cynthia with jokes and quick comments to assuage any suspicion he might have. But Cynthia wasn’t around to defend her anymore, and all Arabella could offer as an explanation was, “It’s a womanly matter. Consider it… a necessary sacrifice for a weak constitution.”

He accepted it, and, to his credit, he kept his word. On the first night of a full moon he made no comment of her absence, nor of the guarded, quiet way she carried herself the morning after. Though, whether it was out of honoring their agreement or out of apathy towards her personal matters was something Arabella did not know.

* * *

_Arabella Whitlock_ , read the marriage license. 

“If only a person’s nature could be as easily changed as their name,” Arabella lamented to the empty air.

* * *

The handsome reverend with the scar on his cheek spoke to the gathered crowd of hope, of good tidings, of acceptance, of generosity, and of renewal. He spoke them well, with an earnest love for the people of a town that knew little of the virtues he preached. When he was done and the crowd began to disperse, and after the stranger told her of Mr. Swearingen’s wish to meet with her, she donated to the reverend's first collection. “Wonderful speech, reverend.”

“Bless you, my child,” he said. “How’d I do?”

“It was all right. I could tell you were a bit nervous.”

“Just a bit.”

Arabella looked behind him at the burnt church. She had long avoided them when given the choice. At least this one had the appearance of character, with its blackened and broken walls, and history of violence. “May I ask you a question on a spiritual matter, reverend?”

“Of course, my child,” he answered. “Just like the doors of the church, my ears are always open.” Authority did not come easy to the man who had taken on the heavy burden of the fight for Deadwood’s soul. That would have to change, or else the burned church would outstay another of its clergymen.

“Do you believe in the existence of Purgatory?” she asked.

Reverend Mason tilted his head slightly, completely surprised by her question. “Purgatory is a Catholic concept. It is not in my denomination’s teachings.”

She gave him a smile draped with innocence. “So when all is said and done, there is only Heaven and Hell? Just two sides of a coin? No chance for a departed sinner to burn away their sins, purify themselves, and then be let past the gates of Saint Peter?”

To his credit, the reverend sounded more sure of himself in his next response, if only because he fell back on the old foundations of dogma. “Hell is the destination for those who rejected the love and teachings of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. They burn because of the sins they chose to commit.”

“And what of the sins outside our control, reverend? Hell is full of those who act monstrously, but what becomes of those who were made into monsters?”

“...sin comes from our choices and our actions. We are all born sinners, but none of us are monsters. God does not punish us for what is out of our control.”

“But haven’t you ever heard the old rhyme?”

He looked at her timorously. “I’ve heard my share of poetry, but I must confess that I do not know which in particular you refer to.”

Arabella knew the old words by heart. “Even she who is pure of heart and says her prayers by night, may become a wolf when the wolf-bane blooms and the autumn moon is bright.”

She did not blame him for the confusion he wore plainly on his face. A breath of nervous laughter escaped his lips, as it did from any man before who had heard her talk of the matter, though they did not know the truth behind the mask of words. No man ever took the wolf seriously until the night came when its teeth were at his throat. She hoped the reverend would never encounter such a night. “Well,” he said, “thankfully wolf-bane flowers don’t grow in Deadwood.”

“Indeed, reverend. Indeed.”

* * *

THE LAND IS POISONED WITH THE STENCH OF GREED. IT’S IN THE AIR. IT’S IN THE DIRT. IT’S IN THE WATER AND THE FIRE. GIVE UNTO ME YOUR SOULS, AND I WILL GRANT YOU POWER. THE DEALER WILL SEE YOU NOW.

Flashes of white erupted from the darkness, pulsating heavily around her. Arabella did not see him approach. She felt it. The narrow silhouette of an unnatural figure appeared before her, showing only its gloved hands and its featureless face.

The Dealer dealt out five cards, and held up one for Arabella to see. The ace of diamonds. It held up four more cards to figures she could not see or feel, but hoped were her new allies. After it held up its fifth and final card, the Dealer shuffled them all and spoke again. 

YOU DECIDE THE FATE OF THIS LAND.

The image of the Dealer and its cards faded from the view of her mind’s eye. In its place she saw thick, black smoke billowing out from the chimney of a train. In the smoke she could make out the shapes of skeletal figures. Before her the figures were overcome by disease that ate away their flesh. The smoke from the train turned to smoke from a church. Visions of her sister’s eyes came to her, and were suddenly taken away by ravenous decay.

The smoke of the church gave way to greater flames, towering higher and higher as they consumed the charred skeleton of the building. She wanted to shut her eyes and turn away from the inferno, but she could not move.

Slowly, a small figure started to emerge from the fire, coming towards her. As she watched, the dark figure took the shape of a girl, young and innocent, unharmed by the flames. She had pale skin, red hair, and wore a torn dress. By her side emerged a second figure, which took the shape of a wolf the size of a horse, coated in rust-brown fur with blood dripping from its mouth.

She saw no joy or malice in the eyes of the girl or the beast staring at her. Only recognition.

* * *

The newly forged quintet rode back to town, leaving behind the horrors of the pit and the visions they had suffered. Night had come during their unconsciousness. Arabella Whitlock looked to the sky and saw her old friend. A face three-quarters full looked back. “A few days at least,” she said to herself. She’d have a few days to find the answers she wanted before her tenant came out in force.

Aloysius Fogg had enough hearing to catch the sound escaping her lips amidst the galloping of horses, though not the words. “What was that?” he asked.

“Nothing, Mr. Fogg. Nothing at all.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, readers! Long time no see.  
> This has been a work in progress for quite some time. But better late than never, as I always say.
> 
> Like many, I saw Travis perk up when Marisha asked about the moon in episode 1, and I enjoyed the werewolf!Arabella jokes.  
> Then I went, "but what if she was a werewolf for real!?" And that led to this.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading.  
> Sincerely yours,  
> A.F.S.M.A.S.


End file.
